


Forged By Fire

by Moonknife



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, I just love yoana, It's Hot By The Forge, Respect Kink, Romance, the rarest of rare pairs it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28465122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonknife/pseuds/Moonknife
Summary: "Masters of their craft, they took as much time with each other as they would on an order from the Emperor himself." The best swordsmith and greatest armorer in the North share a forge, then a bed.
Relationships: Éibhear Hattori/Yoana
Comments: 15
Kudos: 17





	Forged By Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This story features characters from the Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, and there are minor spoilers for the game herein. I didn't use a beta, so all mistakes are mine. Also, I keep tinkering with this story because I love these two. I think this is the only story on AO3 for them, so I don't anticipate many readers, but if you have the time to like or comment, I would love the feedback!
> 
> Song for this work: White Roses of Scotland by Bear McCreary (pretty much any music from the Outlander soundtrack makes me think of Skellige and thus Yoana).

1.

Since revealing herself as a true master armorer, Yoana had gained the respect of the Baron’s men at Crow’s Perch and steady work outfitting the Nilfgaardian officers stationed in the Velen hinterlands. The problem was that it was getting bloody boring. There was no particular challenge when every order that came in was essentially “I’ll have what he’s having.” It was a blissful weight off her shoulders to be at last recognized for her skill (and to keep Fergus away from her master tools) but the grand adventure she’d imagined when leaving Ard Skellig still seemed so far away.

Her restlessness must’ve been obvious to Geralt, who came to her forge often to have her craft strange Witcher armor (really, her best and most interesting work, especially the light armor he called “the cat”). When he came for a new set of gauntlets (“the bear” this time, much heavier and somehow reminiscent of her homeland) he remarked on it immediately. “You look like you could use a change of scenery,” he rumbled, looking over her handiwork with obvious pleasure. “How would you feel about relocating to Novigrad?”

Novigrad! A real city and not this muddy shithole! Granted, she was a true Skelligan and so could thrive in muddy shitholes well enough, but Novigrad was said to be the greatest city in the North. Gods, she would give her eyeteeth. But…”That would suit me just fine, Master Witcher,” she replied, fighting not to let bitterness into her voice, “but I don’t think the Black Ones will let me leave here.”

Geralt only smiled, crinkles appearing at the corners of his strange yellow eyes. “Let me take care of that.”

A week later, she was in Novigrad with Fergus, her tools from Undvik, and an order for special ceremonial armor from General Morvran Voorhis, who apparently was the fanciest of all the Nilfgaardian fancypants in the Free City and an acquaintance of Geralt. Voorhis asked for some pretty ridiculous things as well: the armor was to be all black and gold, lighter than chain but stronger than plate. Good thing for him she was the best at what she did. Bad thing for her that she had no forge. A few days after her arrival, she found herself pacing around her room at The Chameleon (which was a nice enough place but the constant ballad-playing was driving her batty—would it kill the proprietor to throw in a good chanty now and then?) and barking at Fergus until he left. Probably to get drunk.

She resolved to do the same—what else could she do until General Fanciestpants directed her to a forge?—and was settling in for her first pint at the bar when Geralt appeared again.

“Look, Geralt,” she grumbled. “The city has some fine ale. But when’s this general going to requisition me a workspace? I can’t make armor in a tavern. I hope you don’t expect me to sell my Gwent deck to buy my own forge.”

“Gods, no,” Geralt laughed. “I know someone with a forge you can use. He’s a master smith, recently made some custom modifications to his forge that could speed up your crafting time too.”

She was starting to wonder if there was anyone in the blasted country he didn’t know. “Not to sound like a suspicious fishwife, but what’s in it for you, Master Witcher?”

Geralt beckoned to the barkeep. “You and Hattori in the same space would make my life easier. I have work to do in Novigrad, and having the best armorer and best smith in Velen at my disposal is a weight off my mind.”

“At your disposal?” She scoffed and took a sip of ale. It was dark and faintly spicy, and she liked it very much. “You already got your free armor, my lad. And this General Shorty…”

Geralt choked on his ale. “Voorhis,” he wheezed.

She waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. You’ll have to get in line is what I’m saying. This General has already paid half for his order, so he takes priority. As soon as I can get in a blasted forge, you can join the queue!”

“After this drink, I’ll take you to Hattori.” The Witcher gave her an appraising look. “I think the two of you will get along just fine.”

2.

Hattori turned out to be an elf, and possibly the most uptight man she had ever met. When Geralt introduced her and explained that she was a master armorer who would pay a modest fee for use of his facilities, he looked both skeptical and very sour about the idea.

But his forge…by Freya, it was a thing of beauty. And all inside what looked like a rundown house in an especially shitty part of Novigrad! Geralt was still explaining to Hattori why the elf should let her work alongside him when she elbowed the both of them out of the way to get a better look at the ventilation system.

“I can’t believe you have a triple burning forge with almost no smoke in here,” she enthused, giving the hearth a respectful berth but also craning her neck for a better look at his set-up. It seemed he had a large cauldron of water over the fire, and the steam from the cauldron was turning a large fan, which in turn was pushing most of the smoke through a ducting system.

“Merciful gods,” she whispered. “Brilliant.”

Hattori appeared at her side, practically preening. “Designed it myself. I suppose I could share my space with another master,” he said. He looked her again, and she got the feeling he was now really seeing her, not just bristling at the idea of an interloper in his house. “If you…that is…if you don’t mind working alongside an elf.”

There were no elves in Skellige, and the few she’d seen upon arriving in Velen had either been captured Scoia’tael or starving townsfolk. Still, she could admit that Hattori was handsome, even though he looked a bit older that her twenty-five years…which might mean he was over a hundred years old. To think! A hundred years to hone one’s craft. If only she had such a luxury.

“Master Hattori, I’d work side-by-side with a nekker if it meant I could make my armor in a place such as this.” She smiled at him, and he smiled back at her. “It would be my honor to share your forge.”

Yes, this would do well indeed.

3.

She fell in love with his craft first. She had never seen such remarkable swords, stronger than Skellige iron but so light and delicate. And she appreciated watching him work, his strong arms tensed with the effort of tempering the steel, putting strength into blades, carefully wrapping grips in fine leather, etching pommels with snaking designs. His love for his work was inspiring.

Hattori—no, he insisted she call him Eibhear—was undoubtedly a master. And watching the care and infinite patience he put into each and every sword he made prompted her to slow herself down a bit, put more thought into elements of design she had taken for granted before. The two of them even worked together on General Voorhis’ new ceremonial armor, with him crafting the sheath that incorporated the design she worked into the pauldrons.

The overall effect was remarkable: unquestionably Nilfgaardian in detail, but also unique, with elven and Skelligan touches that set the look of the armor apart. And, though it was ceremonial, she had asked Eibhear to take one of his broadswords to the breastplate to test its strength.

“Not even a scratch!” The smith had crowed after swinging the blade at the finished armor, as though her triumph was his. “Truly astonishing, Yoana!”

His respect for her work gave her a satisfaction that even Geralt’s praise couldn’t match. Eibhear was at the top of his craft, and his good opinion was worth more to her than anyone in the world’s, save perhaps her father’s. And they became friends as well, trading stories at the anvil. He was, in fact, eighty-eight years old, but had only begun smithing in his fifties. When she asked him about the time before that, he simply shook his head and made vague references to misspent youth. She had a suspicion that he might have been Scoia’tael, but he wouldn’t say. Whatever he had been before, he was an artist now, through and through. Like her.

Perhaps it was only a matter of time, then, before she began to fall in love with Eibhear himself. She didn’t realize it was happening at first. She’d had crushes as a girl in Holmstein, but she’d been devoted to learning her family’s art and had not spared much time for anything else. In Crow’s Perch she had once spent the night with one of the Baron’s men, and it had been a profoundly forgettable encounter.

With Eibhear, there was a sweet companionship that she had never experienced with anyone. Sometimes she would be hammering a vambrace or a plackart on an anvil while he was but steps away, pouring molten metal into a blade mold, both of them slick with sweat from the forge, and she would look up to find herself locking eyes with him. They were both in their element, creating weapons to kill and armor to protect. How could anyone else ever understand them the way they understood each other?

But Yoana resolved to keep her feelings locked away. She had heard that elves did not find humans attractive (though she had seen enough embraces in the shadows of Novigrad streets to wonder if that was really true), and she did not want to ruin their camaraderie with an awkward seduction attempt that would leave them both mortified. So she said nothing of her longing, and instead spent her days working alongside him and her nights alone at The Chameleon.

Sometimes, lying in her cold bed above the bustling tavern, she would slip one hand between her legs and picture his face, his look of concentration as he worked on the slender blade of a rapier. In the end, she would come with a cry pressed into her pillow, the ghostly feeling of his hands on her body driving her over the edge.

She could have gone on forever that way, sneaking glances at him while they were working and Fergus tended the fire, oblivious. Spending lonely nights with the thought of him to carry her through.

It was a rainstorm that changed everything.

Fergus had already left that evening when the first drops began to fall, and she and Eibhear were once again working on a single requisition, this time for General Voorhis’ friend Adjutant var Arnheim. The design she had settled on for the gorget was particularly difficult, and by the time she was finished and ready to bathe the piece in acid, she was even sweatier than usual and her arms felt liquefied. Eibhear didn’t tease her about it, but she could sense his amusement. He never seemed to get quite as disheveled or exhausted as she did.

After hooking the gorget to a drying rack and removing her leather smithing apron, she gave into temptation and stepped out of Eibhear’s stifling house and into the rain. Novigrad smelled truly disgusting when storms came, but she ignored the stench and lifted her head to let the cool water soothe the heat of the forge away. She stood there for long minutes, until she began to feel a chill. She would need to towel off before putting on her cloak and heading back to The Chameleon. With a long sigh, she went back inside.

And ran directly into Eibhear, who had banked the forge fire and was stripping off his thick work gloves. He began to sputter an apology, then fell silent. She looked at him quizzically, thrown by the spellbound look on his face. She followed his gaze downward and saw that the rain had soaked the bodice of her dress, rendering it entirely transparent. She didn’t wear underthings when she worked at the forge, since they would only get saturated with sweat, and her nipples were clearly visible through the sodden fabric.

She looked up, mortified, intending to make her own apology, when he kissed her. It wasn’t hesitant or gentle, oh no. His kiss was blazing, a brand in and of itself, and her entire body caught fire as she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back with every bit of passion her Skelligan heart possessed. Alone in her room she had imagined ways to seduce him, things she might say to bring him into her arms, but in the end, it was he who seduced her. Not with words, but with the force of his desire for her. It was overwhelming, and she let herself be pulled under by its current.

He swept her up in his arms and carried her up the wooden stairs to his bedroom, where he proceeded to make love to her with such gentle determination that she had no doubt of his feelings for her. He touched her everywhere, and she returned the favor, thrilling with delight when he could not stop himself from moaning in her ear when she touched him here, caressed him there. Masters of their craft, they took as much time with each other as they would on an order from the Emperor himself, and when he was finally, _finally_ inside her, she could not stop herself from crying out at how good, how right it felt. Then they moved together, finding their rhythm, and when that great blaze of pleasure came for her, she arched beneath him from the force of it, almost unable to hear him gasp her name at his own release. When she could open her eyes again, the two of them were lying nearly breathless in each other’s arms.

“Well,” she managed, turning onto her side to look at him. “Good technique, but practice makes perfect.”

His laugh was cut short by her kiss.

4.

She left The Chameleon the next day and brought her few personal belongings to Eibhear’s home, tucking them away in the small armoire in his bedroom. He watched her do this with shining eyes, and when she turned to tease him, he tumbled her back onto the bed. His mouth on her skin sent any thoughts she might have had flying away like hummingbirds in autumn. They were just putting their clothes back on when the front door slammed below.

“Oy! Where are ye buggers?” Fergus bellowed, and they hurriedly made their way downstairs.

Fergus, despite being only an adequate smith and an excellent drinker, was not stupid and figured out what was going on within days. He didn’t say anything to Yoana directly, but instead took it upon himself to occasionally issue veiled threats to Eibhear at strange times. After the fourth or fifth instance of catching Fergus glaring at Eibhear and growling “watch where ye put yer _tongs_ , elf,” Yoana finally pulled him aside.

“Look here,” she said, hands on her hips, voice low even though she suspected Eibhear could still hear them. “I love you like a brother, Fergus, but I wouldn’t even let my actual brother get away with pecking at Eibhear like this. Just cut it out, all right?”

Fergus harrumphed and refused to be cowed. “Ye can’t stand there and tell me yer spending time with him. He’s an elf! They think the rest of us are dog shite, humans especially.” He shook his head, braided beard rustling. “Ye could do better, lass. Find yerself a nice human boy. Or, ye know, even a dwarf. Someone who would respect ye.” He blushed faintly, and Yoana could swear she heard Eibhear catch his breath in the next room.

She and Eibhear had not discussed the fact that she was human and he was an elf beyond her occasionally ribbing him for being so much older than she, but she knew Fergus truly believed what he was saying. She, however, did not believe it.

“Fergus.” She put a gentle hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend. But you don’t need to worry. Eibhear does respect me, and…” She hesitated, because she did think Eibhear was listening and she wondered if it was right to say it this way, but she was resolved and would leave fear for the fainthearted. “And anyway, I love him.”

Fergus held her gaze for a long moment, then sighed, and she knew she had won. “All right then, if that’s the way of it. But if he breaks yer heart, I am going to wring his pretty elvish neck.” She chuckled and he nodded and went back into the main room, where the forge was. Where Eibhear was. Ah well. There was no use in avoiding it now. She followed him.

But even though the fire was still high, Eibhear was nowhere to be found. Uncertain whether he had heard her confession or merely stepped out, Yoana did what she always did in moments of doubt: she went back to work. The day passed into dusk and still Eibhear did not return. After helping her shut down the forge, Fergus went back to The Chameleon and Yoana, exhausted from worry and without any idea where to start looking, went upstairs to the bedroom, changed into her nightdress, and crawled under the heavy quilt.

She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until a gentle touch on her cheek woke her. She opened her eyes to find Eibhear sitting on the bed next to her, and without thinking she drew him down into her arms. He exhaled as though he had been holding his breath all day.

“I’m sorry I left,” he said softly against her hair. “I don’t always know what to do when something good happens to me, so I needed to take a walk and clear my head.”

She pulled back a little in his embrace. “I meant it,” she said simply. “Eibhear, even if you don’t feel the same, I…”

He silenced her with a kiss, and when he pushed her back against the pillows and slipped his hands up her thighs she sighed in pleasure.

“I love you, Yoana,” he said, dipping his head to brush his lips against her collarbone. “I love you.”

She had never been this happy. She would wager no one had ever been this happy. Maybe, she thought as he pulled her nightdress over her head, Geralt should get one more set of free armor.


End file.
